So long as Caesar had been kind to her, Melissa had felt repelled by him;
but now, when he was angry, she was once more attracted to him.

As the wounds of a murdered man are said to bleed afresh when the
murderer approaches, Caracalla's irritable soul was wont to break out in
a frenzy of rage when any one was so rash as to allude to this, his
foulest crime. This reference to his brother's death had as usual
stirred his wrath, but he controlled it; for as a torrent of rain
extinguishes the fire which a lightning-flash has kindled, the homage to
his strength, in Alexander's satire, had modified his indignation. The
irony which made the artist's contemptuous words truly witty, would not
have escaped Caracalla's notice if they had applied to any one else; but
he either did not feel it, or would not remark it, for the sake of
leaving Melissa in the belief that his physical strength was really
wonderful. Besides, he thus could indulge his wish to avoid pronouncing
sentence of death on this youth; he only measured him with a severe eye,
and said in threatening tones, to repay mockery in kind and to remind the
criminal of the fate imperial clemency should spare him:

"I might be tempted to try my strength on you, but that it is worse to
try a fall with a vaporing wag, the sport of the winds, than with the son
of Caesar. And if I do not condescend to the struggle, it is because you
are too light for such an arm as this." And as he spoke he boastfully
grasped the muscles which constant practice had made thick and firm.
"But my hand reaches far. Every man-at-arms is one of its fingers, and
there are thousands of them. You have made acquaintance already, I
fancy, with those which clutched you."

"Not so," replied Alexander, with a faint smile, as he bowed humbly.